


Of Guns and Roses

by Kiyuomi



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Betrayal, Blackmail, Dubious Consent, General Unsafe Behaviors, Guns, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mafia AU, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death, Romanticized Death, Underage Sex, Unsafe Sex, Yakuza, spy AU, yoikinkmeme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:47:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9465968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyuomi/pseuds/Kiyuomi
Summary: "Viktor introduces his boy toy to the biggest spy agency in all of Russia, and the world."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the YoIKinkMeme:  
> Yuuri/All + secret badass

                Soft black hair and pretty brown eyes mar a slightly plump face of a man tucked into Viktor Nikiforov. All eyes roam his body, smallish shoulders and a belly that peeks out between the buttons of his shirt, something unfitted from a department store. His tie is blue and shiny from cheap threads and his suit contrasts, the pants a navy based black and the top a purple based one, complete with shiny silver buttons that match nothing in his ensemble. Brown shoes with loosely tied laces contrasted with black socks complete his look, and some men shake their head in laughter. The man is happy, too happy, dancing and roaming with their king. No one is uncertain that by the end of the night, the pretty little thing will be dead in his bed.

                It doesn’t happen.

                The very next day, Viktor brings him to work and introduces him as beginner agent “K Yuuri”. The man stutters, stumbles and dresses like a poor boy. It would be almost cute if Viktor had brought him to a grocery store as a teenage summer hire. But he hasn’t, and he’s standing here now, eyes wide at the sight of the men and women lined up in front of him.

                Skin-tight black suits. Well dressed and mostly clean shaven. Blank faces.

                At least three weapons on the body at all times.

                Viktor had introduced his boy toy to the biggest spy agency in all of Russia, and the world.

♠

                “You’re the new recruit?” It’s spat out, more a curse than an insult. Yuuri winces, pulling the thin black knit turtleneck overhead. It comes fitted with two rows of two pockets on either side both in and out, allowing for maximum storage usage. For bullets or syringes, he’s not certain. The blonde dressing next to him doesn’t seem to care to explain, either.

                “Yes, Victor brought me here,” Yuuri explains as cheerfully as possible. The boy, surely no bigger than thirteen or fourteen, scoffs. He tugs on a belt with two false loop holes meant to fit in a silent alarm and Yuuri recalculates. “Did you grow up in this agency? What’s your name?” A moment, and then, “How old are you?”

                “Why does it matter to you?” The boy hisses like a cat, angry and perpetually hard to predict, and he stomps on shorts with tight fingers. Unlike the fitted vest and full trousers Yuuri’s been given, the cussing child’s shirt is cut far more... flattering, and he isn’t lost on the slight shine of the thigh high socks being pulled upward. “Yes. Yuri. I’m fifteen, fuckhead.”

                “Oh,” Yuuri supplies, more surprised that the teen had replied at all. Fifteen means that he’s young, startling so, and if his uniform isn’t a one-time job, well. Yuuri represses a shiver. “You do this often then?”

                “Yes,” another hiss. Again, Yuri glares at him; looking as if nothing in the world is as loathsome as the black haired man intruding his presence. Yuri slips a knife into his ankle boots, slow, obvious, and slams the locker door shut. He storms past Yuuri and the door hinges squawk when he fiercely pulls. “Hurry up or you’ll miss the debriefing, newbie.”

                “Wait!”

                The door closes with a final clang.

♠

                Yuri, despite his rather antisocial appearance, reveals that he generally works in a trio. Much to Yuuri’s horror, they’re not much older than he. Otabek and JJ, eighteen and nineteen respectively, crowd around the youngest of the four. Otabek is, at least, dressed the same way as Yuuri, if not more armed. There’s a rifle stand poking out of the oversized bag slung behind him and he’s got easy access to handguns at either side of his hips. JJ, conversely, is decked out in the same gear as Yuri—tight shorts with additional lace garters and shiny high socks, useless throw over jacket over a tight shirt straining against well-defined muscles and a showman grin. There are tattoos littered over his arms that Yuuri’s eyes trace. They’re dark, clearly readable phrases, and an odd choice for a spy.

                Yuuri knows exactly what kind of people they are.

                “We’re covering for these two,” Otabek explained. “The target today is a 37 year old man named Thomas Williams. Though he wasn’t active in politics in the past, as of late he’s been donating millions under false names to a newly created party we believe have connections to nuclear power.” He pointed at the holster strapped across Yuuri. “We do not shoot unless our agents are compromised.”

                “You’re ravens.” It’s not a question but an accusation. Neither Yuri nor JJ seem to care, the latter purring a response.

                “Want a ride? We don’t charge.” Yuri growls at the inclusion, jabbing the other fiercely.

                “As if, we’re going. Come on, Beka.”

                The three turn at once, practiced. Yuuri lingers for a moment longer, watching their silhouettes. They’re not that much younger than he.

                But they are younger. More innocent. Naïve.

                Otabek turns around and gestures to him and Yuuri smiles, waves, and follows.

                The future is most easily changed by capturing the past.

♠

                JJ and Yuri, it turns out, are great at their job. The target takes both of them, JJ against the hotel desk and Yuri tied to the headboard. When he slips out a knife Yuuri nearly shoots, but Otabek hisses into his ear comm.

                “Is that normal?” Yuuri responds, fingers tight against the handle of the rifle. He knows better than to stop the operation like this, he _knows_ , but he’s not blind to the dangers of the situation. JJ’s murmuring something to the target, a seductive sentence, a little plea, and the knife takes a trembling little shake from Yuri’s body to his. “Is this normal?” Otabek’s breathing is harsh, tense.

                “Sometimes,” his voice feels as tight as Yuuri’s grip, and the older agent forces his fingers loose. “Sometimes, targets do weird little things like that. They want to believe that they’re forcing the virginity from a pure boy,” Yuri “or maybe breaking a celebrity figure,” JJ “it doesn’t matter. We do what we can.”

                JJ catches the man against the bedpost and Yuri had wriggled out of the weak knots, mirroring JJ’s pose. They’re sandwiching the target, humming little rhythms and offering small favors. Hips twisting, lips moving, and hormone churning. Yuuri knows the ending of the story without listening to it.

                The blood in him still thrums, impatient.

                “Do they ever come back hurt?” He knows better than to ask. It’s not his job, to protect child soldiers. He knows better.

                “Sometimes.” Familiarity, resignation. He knows the feeling more than anyone in the world. “They heal.” Yuuri thinks of JJ’s tattoos, of Yuri’s long hair.

                “They get hidden.” Cigarette butts against the forehead. Sudden murder attempt during a supposedly successful trap. Branding. Yuuri’s seen the cases. He’s heard the stories.

                “Sometimes.”

                He’s furious.

♠

                “Did you like your first day, honey?”

                “Don’t tease me,” Yuuri pouts, jutting out his bottom lip. Viktor laughs at that, a little giggle, and pokes at Yuuri’s pudgy cheeks.

                “You’re so cute,” the silver haired Russian whispers. He runs his hands over Yuuri’s, rough leather-bound fingers scratching his bare skin, and leans in close, teasing the shell of his ear. “Yuuri, let’s have some fun tonight.”

                Viktor is seductive.

                Yuuri grips his hips, tight, and pulls him in. There’s a startled yelp from the gang lord and Yuuri slips in between his legs, mouth grazing at open collarbones.

                Viktor is sexy.

                Yuuri palms his growing erection through his slacks and wonders how old Victor was in his first unit, his first mission.

                Viktor is beautiful.

                The first time he had been told to spread his legs.

                Viktor isn’t yet his.

                Then the first that he had.

♠

                Yuuri dreams of bodiless gloves. Invasive, scary, unwanted.

                He’s doing the right thing.

                He has to.


	2. Chapter 2

                By the end of the second week, not a person in the underground world hasn’t heard of the foolish hidden head of Russia. But as much as people may want to talk and jab at Victor, not one dares to do anything but stare at his feet. They are scared, rightfully.

                They don’t belong anywhere but his feet, kissing the marks of dirt and blood that have been marred into the soles of his shoes.

                Up until this man, they had thought that Victor would forever be their king.

                They aren’t wrong.

                It’s just that as Victor Nikiforov kisses the edges of his toy’s calves, little light nibbles and smooches along his ankle to the ends of his foot, a small tickle of his tongue, the world is captivated. They are lost, fearful, confused.

                Their king remains a king.

                It is simply clear that Katsuki Yuuri is, wrongfully, a god.

♠

                Being a raven in Russia is a busier job that Yuuri could have imagined.

                The time that passes between missions is seldom, but slow. Yuuri seems to be fairly solidly assigned to the trio for now, and it’s not long before he gets a chance to share lunch with them. They make a great team; JJ captures attention with his presence, Yuri stealthy in his charms and Otabek, always behind but never of anyone’s will but his own. Still, Yuuri doesn’t recall any raven team being this active before.

                “Yuri is gone again?” JJ and Otabek sit across from him, pre-packaged box lunches in hands. Yuuri is eating his own, a small dish of steamed soup buns and pickled radish. “Wasn’t he only back for two days?”

                “Three,” Otabek corrects. “It’s not unusual behavior.” He cracks open the lid of his lunch to reveal a tin of clear soup, stir fried noodles and a carrot potato mash. His hands move to JJ’s lunch, opening the same contents.

                “Yuri’s popular,” JJ shrugs, pride brimming in his voice. “It’s just a debriefing. Some lady who has an obsession with young ‘pure’ boys.” He laughs, nodding to Otabek in thanks for taking out the utensils. “As though Yuri’s ever been anything close to pure.”

                “Never?” Yuuri mumbles between bites, hot oil spilling from the corners of his lips.

                “He grew up in the agency,” Otabek explains. He raises a spoon of mash and eyes it.

                “We all did,” JJ grins and twirls his fork in the noodles. “We’ve done this for years. That’s why we’re so great at it. Well,” he winks, “that, and our blessed looks.” Yuuri knows the stories. He’s read their files, over, memorizing and re-memorizing. They don’t get that much time off. But it’s enough.

                The plan is forming in his head, little by little.

♠

                Yuuri doesn’t mean it when he opens the door to what seems to be a janitor closet in the research room to find a half-ajar file drawer. It’s purely curiosity, and a mild sense of guilt, that probes him into pulling the drawer open further rather than closing it.

                It’s just luck that he’s pulled the file of unit #2417ced.

                Victor doesn’t find him for the rest of the day, even during dinner.

♠

                “We’re going shooting today.”

                “We’re what?”

                Otabek not being scary is the first thing that Yuuri had to realize. Sure, Yuri seems soft and sweet on mission, and yes, JJ was flamboyant and friendly, but it’s Otabek that actively keeps the team together. It’s the Kazhak spy that spends his time preparing meals and debriefs, half speaking about the mess that is their room and half speaking about cleaning the blood stains that are left on their clothes, somewhat focused on maintaining his aim but also wary of the agent movements inside the rooms.

                Otabek holds the gun.

                But it’s his partners that grasp onto the trigger.

                Still, it’s hard not to be wary of the way he’s holding onto the assault rifle.

                “We’re going to practice shooting. It’s to ensure our aim remains accurate if the skill is needed,” Otabek better explains. Yuuri nods dumbly, hard to find the right words to express his emotions. It’s not that shooting practice isn’t expected in an agency such as this, it’s just, well.

                Otabek leads him to an abandoned shooting ring, and Yuuri blanches at the strong smell of dust, bullet shells and blood that sweeps outward when they slide open the door. Otabek doesn’t flinch.

                They spend the afternoon like that, breathing in the air of dead men and “accidental” friendly fire, the air of a ground marked abandoned after a tragedy fourteen years ago. It’s only when they leave that Yuuri catches the name engraved into the side of the door.

                “Yulia P.”

                Ah.

♠

                Yuuri doesn’t mention the name, and neither does Otabek.

                They go on a mission that week with the obsessed woman. Then another, only four days later, a weekend long assignment consisting of bugging the clothes of a corrupt politician. Not a person speaks of the name.

                The week after, another break, Otabek invites Yuuri out to shoot again.

                And again.

                In the same range every time, Yuuri watches as Otabek takes the same form he’s kept since he grew out of small, skinny, throwaway toy. His hands only seem tight on the gun, in reality, he’s probably the loosest Yuuri’s ever seen him.

                Inside the small shelter is the scent of freedom from the cruel world that had taken over.

                Yuuri breathes.

♠

                As active as Yuuri is out in the field, it’s a comfort to know that he can come home to one Victor Nikiforov every night. Even when others may be annoyed by him, or want to attack, not one dares in the sight of the silver haired killer beauty.

                That’s killer, and beauty.

                “How are the kids doing, dear?” Pet names roll off Victor’s tongue as often as bullets scatter in a shooting range. Yuuri smiles, polite, precise, because the teasing is as much friendly as testing with a man like him.

                “They’re good. Very talented,” almost too much for their age, with maturity that banks on a thin string of sanity, “they’re really great. Victor,” he likes them, he does, but this is so slow, “when can I work independently?”

                Victor’s smile freezes up for hardly a millisecond, just a little tensing at the corner of his lips. But Yuuri sees it, sees the barest flinch of a wrinkle, of strain because this is a tricky question, a tricky answer, a just barely veiled “do you trust me” and a “I could destroy you”. He knows, he knows.

                “Soon, honey,” Victor says instead, because he knows.

                He knows.

                “Promise?”

                He knows it all.

                “Promise.”

                Yuuri just wants to know which he.

♠

                “We miss you, Yuuri. When will you come back to us?”

                “I’m sorry, I’ll get it done. Soon, I just need your help and then it’ll really start, okay?”

                “Promise?”

                “Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kubo, a writer of YoI, said in an interview that Yuri's mother was a teen one-hit-wonder. While that doesn't quite fit in with the agency, I did want to capture the feeling of fleeting youth.
> 
> Plot kicks up in the next few chapters. The Mature rating is going to intensify hahaha.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love and Roses

                Victor Nikiforov is not known for his patience.

                Katsuki Yuuri? As patient as they come.

                When he lingers behind the other agents, runs errands for his play lover, smiles sunnily on missions; there is no moment of silence for an agency. But in the moments that Katsuki Yuuri appears, there is a moment of stillness.

                A moment of tranquility in an agency is incredible.

                Horrifying.

                Katsuki Yuuri appears and tears the world they know in tiny, paper thin pieces.

                The world shatters.

♠

                It’s only a month later when their world breaks.

                “Some agent of a Southeast Asian agency,” JJ hums, scanning the paper, “Phichit Chulanont. Twenty, Thai, Bi. Apparently he hasn’t really shown a specific preference to any type, so we’re both going in this time.”

                “Greedy,” Otabek comments.

                “He’s deflected two sparrows before,” JJ continues, glancing over pointedly at Yuri, “which means we need to be on guard. You know the drill.” The blonde bristles, snapping at the matching suspenders that JJ wears over his shirt. The leather smacks against skin, loud, and Yuuri intervenes.

                “It’s a routine mission,” it’s not, “so let’s do our best, yeah?”

                Otabek nods, slipping into place behind his allies. JJ grins and Yuri scoffs; his hair whipping around his face as he turns away. Their little blonde leader.

                “We always do.”

♠

                Phichit strips the agents at the front door. Yuuri’s perched over the edge of the rooftop two buildings away, lazily playing with his rifle. He doesn’t need to glance into the windows to know that Phichit is probably enjoying himself, lazily fucking open JJ and Yuri with his fingers, small slow rotations of his wrist. He can barely hear them; little gasps and moans that echo between a low slick sound, and Phichit’s smug whispers.

                The channel Yuuri shares with Otabek doesn’t connect inside the hotel room.

                Otabek had been the biggest factor. He was a little more trusting than the other two, simply by principle, but more dangerous simply by having more experience with loss. While Yuri and JJ were the power duo of the group, overconfidence radiated from their every step. Nobody was worth their time. Nobody but each other.

                It’s a little cute fairytale, bubbled between pastel pages.

                This is reality.

                Yuuri stands two hours in and no status report. He hears the clack of Otabek moving to his standing figure. He can shoot, or he can wait. A moment, then another. Otabek remains silent.

                Yuuri smiles. He jumps just as the window to the hotel room slides forward, crashing into pavement as his body slips through the square opening.

                “Yuuri!” Phichit greets, waving with sticky fingers. He’s flushed; body bare and aroused, but pants solidly on. Yuuri pauses at the head of the bed, eyes wandering over the two forms on the bed. Phichit had done his job fine—the two biggest threats were immobilized, blindfold and earplugs firmly taped on. Something akin to guilt squirms in Yuuri’s gut, but he solidly ignores it to the situation at hand.

                “Phichit,” he acknowledges, sliding his hand over the wooden cabinet. They only have a matter of seconds before Otabek will reach them, who, while usually smart and careful, will probably shoot on impulse if he glances in to see them. He slides open the top drawer to reveal two loaded revolvers. There’s only a split second of hesitation before he snatches them up, nodding to Phichit before slipping under the raised bed where JJ and Yuri are bound.

                True to his sentiments, Otabek’s shots come shooting in. He hears Phichit give a fake screech, high and playful to any who knows the Thai agent, and then there’s a second loud crashing of Otabek entering the room, empty handgun spinning away uselessly. Yuuri’s about ready to reveal himself on Otabek’s back when Phichit speaks.

                “Are you going to kill me?”

                Otabek doesn’t answer, but there’s a telltale click of the gun. His boots noisily step forward, only once, and Yuuri rolls over the carpeted floor to poke his head out. From this angle, he can’t quite figure out Otabek’s expression.

                “Are they hurt?” Tsk. It’s the wrong answer and Phichit knows, chuckling lightly. An agent is always supposed to be ready to desert their partners.

                But some can’t.

                Some young, oblivious fools fall in love.

                “They’re fine,” Phichit all but sings, scuffling forward. “I didn’t do anything but help get them off. Hey,” his voice drops, husky, and Yuuri suppresses a resigned sigh, “I can do that for you too.”

                Yuuri doesn’t bother to hear the answer. He rolls out from under the bed and raises both arms, both guns, fast just as Otabek turns and reaches for his own. Yuuri gives an experimental shot, just one, against the counter and the wood splinters on impact, the sound roaring in their tiny room. Someone, from beyond this floor, screeches. Otabek’s arm halts midair. Yuuri should teach him better.

                “Y-Yuuri?” Another wrong. For once, Otabek’s eyes are wide and his expression oblivious, confused, piecing together the puzzle laid in front. It’s an expression he should never make on the job.

                Yuuri will teach him better.

                “Otabek,” he greets, as though he wasn’t in contact with the agent moments before. The younger agent continues staring, odd, and Yuuri sighs. “Otabek, Otabek. I thought I taught you better than this. You should have just gone for your gun when you had the chance.” Immediately, the other begins to move his arm but Yuuri simply tsks, cocking the gun again. He freezes. “Not now, boy. I meant in the future.”

                “Future,” Otabek repeats, careful. Yuuri knows what he’s implying. It’s something that he would ordinarily never give away in a mission.

                Hey, four months of affection does something to you, even if you’re a senior agent.

                “We don’t want to hurt anybody,” Phichit breaks in, and Otabek twists his head to face him. His body remains largely focused on Yuuri, just as the Japanese agent had taught him. Good. “We’re here to help, that’s all.”

                “How?” It’s an accusation. Agents should never, really, be pointing their guns at each other on a mission. If they are, it’s a sign for only one thing: a double. And what’s worse than having a double is being tricked by one.

                “You do some good work,” Yuuri says. Otabek turns back to him. “You’re one of the most talented agents I’ve ever seen. You, with JJ and Yuri, you three are fantastic. An amazing unit.” It’d be empty praise on anyone else. But by the widening of Phichit’s eyes, he knows he sounds genuine. “I don’t think this life you live is fair. I want to give you a better one.”

                “I don’t need that.” Typical answer of childhood agents. But Yuuri’s in the middle of a crucial experiment here. If the answer he gets now isn’t the one he wants, then he’d be better off bailing from the Russian team as a whole.

                “I can get you security,” Yuuri promises, and recalls the folders he had read up on, “security for you, for your family, for your partners,” Otabek’s eyes stray to the bed, “and their families. I can make sure you’re never harmed again.” It’s a great deal, one that would make even a strong man waver. But Yuuri does one better. “You three can be your own family.”

                Otabek’s eyes grow wide.

                Child agents: born into the agency, live through the agency, and die in the agency. Yuuri knows their type, knows there’s no resentment for their blood family but no affection either. Those sort of kids, they die next to the only family they ever get the chance to know.

                Yuuri’s been there.

                The only reason he’s alive is the person behind Otabek. He knows the decisions the average one will make, when they’re foolish and in love. But what he doesn’t know for certain are the decisions of an agent.

                “So? What do you say?”

                He wants to find out.

♠

                Love is a dangerous thing.  
                Yuuri returns with a sheepish smile on his face as Victor congratulates him for encouraging Phichit to join their ranks. The Thai agent had seemed like an angel, happily spilling trade secrets innocently. Otabek had rushed his swallows into the shower, restlessly keeping watch before the three turned in for an early night. It’s the first Yuuri had seen the Kazakhstan boy walk in front.

                “Wow! Yuuri, you’re amazing!”

                “Am I?” He gives a chuckle, shrugging as Victor cuddles into his middle. The Russian man is cute, porcelain skin clear and smooth under his fingertips. He wants to bends over, to blow the silver hair and to give an affectionate kiss. He restrains. “I think you’re more amazing.”

                “No, Yuuri, you’re really amazing.” Victor is so kind, so sweet. It’s hard to believe such a man is the head of such a brutal organization.

                Yuuri almost feels guilty.

                “You only say that out of love,” he whispers. Victor’s hair is soft, every strand glistening just so until their dim lights. Maybe it’s his imagination, an exaggeration come alive from tales when he was young, from before Phichit came into his life. He clenches the silver lines.

                “I love you,” Victor agrees. He’s expectant.

                “Thank you.”

                He had never realized how stupid Victor Nikiforov was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow Yuuri is savage
> 
> Dramatic chapter. Poor Otabek. :.)


	4. Chapter 4

                What is love?

                Is it just a hormonal response to a person chemically? Or is it some complex beyond biological reaction that can be controlled through something as unbelievable as finding a “soul mate”? Are all relationships just variations of love, or is there a defining point where “like” slips into “love”?

                Is it a friend, or is it a foe?

                In missions, the slightest lack of intel can lead to accidents, ones that can be of no fault of the injured. There is nothing worse than going into what is meant to be an easy mission and coming out alive, alone.

                Every piece of information is precise.

                When Yuuri wakes to the soft sounds of Victor’s snores, the warm hand that cups his own, the messy puddle of drool that leaks from open lips, he can’t focus. He thinks about sunlight pouring in, about the freshly changed sheets and how they will never smell like anything but a department store, how Victor will never wear anything twice just in case, and something pulls at his heart.

                Every piece of information is precious.

                He presses an index finger against the top of Victor’s forehead, sliding it back at the slightest bit of skin visible beneath silver hair.

                What good is knowing how the deadliest man in the world styles his hair?

♠

                Yuuri knows of many stereotypes of the spy industry. He knows about the beautiful red haired woman, the innocent-yet-murderous child, the little siblings that smile sunnily as they swap heads. The movies go above and beyond realism, and it’s his pleasure that he will never encounter anything as deadly as a body-swapping device, or a mind-reading one, or a robot that will invade him inside out. The tropes of the backstabbing blonde, the slimy perverted men, the ghosts of spies dead…

                It’s all fiction.

                Well, mostly.

                “My name is Georgi,” a tall, slim black haired man with way too much eyeshadow greeted. “It’s a pleasure to work with the Victor’s beloved.” Even the way he says beloved stinks of, well, Yuuri isn’t quite sure how to describe it. In fact, he does nothing at all but laugh, nervously combing his fingers through his hair. To be frank, he’s never met someone who really, quite resembled a slimy backstabber as in the movies!

                But, here he is.

                “Ah, my name is—”

                “Katsudon Yuuri, no need,” Georgi interrupts, smiling what he probably believes is pleasantly at Yuuri’s direction. “It is, as always, an honor.” What “as always”? Yuuri smiled, giving a quick run-through by memory. No, he was certain that he didn’t know this man.

                But this man knew him.

                “Dangerous,” Yuuri thought, and when Georgi gestured to him to follow, he did.

                What a dangerous situation.

♠

                At the least, it’s new work.

                It turns out that Yuuri working with Georgi is less to learn from the man, than to ensure nothing happens to him. Georgi is somehow wild; he’s this jumble of fierce emotions and passion, dreams of forbidden loves and an almost offensively typical hungry mindset. It’s a wonder that the man hadn’t been caught mid-mission yet. Yuuri hesitates to think what morons have been caught due to this one.

                In between Georgi’s craze though, is a silent killer.

                Otabek’s shooting was wild. More wild than one would expect from the composed boy. But there was a hidden passion in his body, something burning that shouldered its way up and into his gun, magnified by the pierce possessiveness to protect.

                Georgi shoots like a lover.

                His shots are clean, single, a silent killer. His bullets give a deadly kiss, a little smooch to the heart that kills. His hands, carrying the body, spilling not a drop of blood, are gentle to the still warm corpse.

                Yuuri watches him aim and fire, taking out a pretty woman with curly black hair and a gorgeous smile, and when the bullet sinks into her dress, Georgi lets out a single tear.

                “How pathetic,” he wants to say. But when Georgi limbers into the building, quiet, quiet, hugging her body to his chest and smiling downward, framing her hair around her face all prettily, dropping a pre-disposed fake suicide note with oversized cursive writing, he cannot. When Georgi brings him to a little lake, running wild and desperate, knocking over bottles of ale and startling the sane; when Yuuri watches him yell, crying, dropping his kill into a shallow lake, letting loose of roses, petals hitting her cheeks, he cannot say a word.

                It’s beautiful.

                When Georgi runs his fingers through her hair, eyes on her cold pale body, he thinks of Victor.

                Beautiful.

♠

                Yuuri returns to the agency to a note message.

                He doesn’t need to read through it all to know who it’s from.

                Smiling, he writes back.

♠

                It’s the third assassination that ticks him off.

                “Someone is trying to kill you?”

                Georgi nods, cheeks plump with sudden depression. He pulls at his sleeves, almost nervous. Yuuri ponders, wandering from side to side of the small alley they had tucked themselves into, thinking of the signs. They were there, from the beginning, but worrying.

                The first assassination had no signs during the event itself, but shortly after her body was found someone had dug up a footprint of Georgi’s shoe. It would be usual had Yuuri not known that Georgi swapped to new, flat shoes before every entry.

                The second assassination was obvious from the get go. The moment they had gotten into position; two stray shots came their way; it was only Yuuri pouncing on Georgi that saved his life. He would be a fool to dismiss the incident, but Georgi had been insistent.

                Now, having seen the pinstripe black sleeve of an agent that was not from Russia as a whole, nor from their agency, there was no denial how much trouble Georgi was in.

                There was no denial the trouble Yuuri was in either.

♠

                He shares dinner with Phichit.

                “Tell me about your lover,” the Thai agent teases. When Yuuri grimaces, he laughs. “Kidding, kidding. Don’t tell me about your tale or I’ll start telling you to run.” It’s their little inside joke, their little lies, their little scenarios that bubble upward from “what ifs” and denials. The story of their first kill. The story of their latest.

                It’s familiar; loving.

                Yuuri tells.

                When he speaks of Victor, Phichit holds his hand.

                When he speaks of Otabek, Phichit runs a finger up his arm.

                When he speaks of Georgi, Phichit laughs, leaning in close until their cheeks touch.

                He can feel the wisp of Phichit’s breath against his skin.

                Familiar.

                Loving.

♠

                Victor is asleep by the time Yuuri returns to their room. His blankets are kicked up around him, spooned around his waist and his feet bare, poking out. He breaths in deep, hugging a blue throw pillow to his chest. There’s a fluffy pink heart plush, something new, and Yuuri smiles on sight.

                It’s a little mean, but he can’t resist a little tickle along the soles of Victor’s foot, humming when the sleeper whines, kicking away. Still, he doesn’t let go, simply running his fingers upward, curving around his calf and higher, higher until he hits the warmth of the pool of blankets to Victor’s hip.

                Victor rumbles in his sleep, turning over. Sharp, Yuuri pulls away.

                He watches as Victor snores in his sleep. His bed is messy, undone, all tangled around. He would be lying if he hadn’t seen agents quite so messy before. Still, he had thought Victor would be different.

                He thought a lot of things about Victor.

                Here, pulling the blankets back down, covering the bare toes, he still thinks.

♠

                His heart thuds.

                Yuuri can’t sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ao3 503 errors kill me  
> save me from this darkness in my life
> 
> (also double post today :D feels good) (I have a midterm in 4 hours)


	5. Chapter 5

                Yuuri wakes to a cold blanket and a tracker in his shoe.

                Is Victor? No, he can’t be. There’s a reason Katsuki Yuuri of all people was chosen for this mission. He was a seamless coward, a self-loathing idiot, a buffoon inside and out. Outside of the local town he had once called home, no one knew him.

                He’s certain of it.

                He presses a little too hard into the shoe, and the tracker crackles.

♠

                He gets another letter in his mailbox, written with the same loopy words. It’s a sort of messy handwriting that one adjusts to with ease, if only because it looks so homely.

                It’s out of place in this vat of death, but then again, isn’t everyone?

♠

                There’s a familiar flash of pinstripe at the corner of the brickstone building during the fifth assassination, with Georgi moving at lightning speed to enter the building. Yuuri’s supposed to be following him, but then one bullet makes its way between them, then two, and suddenly they’re caught in a shootout. Bullet shells rain from the window, glass splintering and shards scattering and even security hesitates to enter, coming into the doorway only to get a stray bit of carnage stuck in their body.

                It’s the sort of wild shooting that Yuuri remembers with frightening familiarity.

                “Georgi, what do we do?” His voice is high, frantic, and Georgi trembles in response. The mood of the situation gets to the Russian man faster than any bullets, and every word from Yuuri’s mouth is soaked in panicked falsetto. “Georgi, what are we going to do? Georgi! Georgi!”

                “I don’t know!” The other chokes out, hands cupping his face desperately. Cloaked in black leather, his fingers pull at pale skin, scratching, searching out a solution. “I can’t die like this!” Not alone, trapped in a room from bullet hell. He grimaces at his own poor humor, curled up and locked into place. The bullets slow, then stop.

                Yuuri couldn’t be any luckier.

                “Georgi, I’m going.” Strict, firm. Georgi’s eyes scramble to find him, his head shaking dizzily. “Stay here, be safe!” Calm, collective, mature. In a tense situation, there must be a leader.

                “Y-Yuuri?” Apprehension colors Georgi’s whispers. The bullets won’t be starting up again for at least twelve seconds, if Yuuri knows the model. “No, it’s too dangerous!”

                “I’m going!” A leader is courageous, wild. Yuuri grits his teeth as he stomps out, noisy stamping against the feet, warning, calling for attention. It’s a wild game, a risky one, and his leg just hooks out the broken window as security bursts into the door. He hears Georgi’s scream, and then the shooting starts again.

                Yuuri could stop to assess the situation, the risk of him taking on Georgi and still maintaining a peaceful solution to this irritating assassination problem.

                Or he could march down two streets and finish this.

                Georgi is a murderer anyway. Yuuri’s seen his type: the kind that romanticize death, probably thinks of double suicide as a tearful rosy farewell to the world. They’re the delusional type, the ones who hide their despairing thoughts and deadly intentions under pretty words and artful terminology. The type to attack others without thought, only to lash out furiously when a fraction of the hurt is returned. They’re victims, victimizers, poison that don’t know it.

                Maybe it’s naivety, maybe it’s stupidity.

                But Yuuri prefers letting others know just how poisonous he is.

♠

                It’s not safe to take food from strangers.

                Even so, Yuuri would rather take week old rotten garbage for a meal over the one set in front of him. A familiar bowl of pork katsudon, boiled rice cooked with two-thirds the usual amount of water for the right crisp, a layer of soft, smooth egg and onion and a wide breaded filet of pork over, all coated in sesame oils, soy sauce and a spoonful of fish paste.

                It’s his favorite meal.

                But the only one in the entire agency who knows is gossiping about love lives with a senior.

                “What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?” It’s a playful, teasing line that Yuuri’s come to anticipate with the speaker, but even so, the words churn in his stomach. He had simply, maybe wrongfully, assumed that Otabek was the most dangerous. He had somehow thought it as a game; simply defeating one, then another, would lead to a boss battle. “I read katsudon was your favorite food.”

                He might have triggered a mid-boss.

                “JJ,” the other agent perks up at his name, sunnily grinning with his hands folded patiently over a napkin, “I really appreciate the invitation to lunch. But I don’t eat katsudon unless it’s a really special day.” One where he’s completed a mission, but Yuuri would rather avoid that topic with JJ. Or rather, he probably already knows.

                “But you did really well recently, didn’t you?” Mock surprise, coated in sugary sweetness. His sweater is too loose, gaping to expose his collarbones and the shallow shadow of a well-built physique. “You got matched with a new agent, got to make more friends, advanced in your relationship with Victor,” every listing earns Yuuri another sinking stone, deflating the sense of victory he had once before, “even outsmarted us. Got rid of Otabek easily enough, right?” The stones collide, burning in his stomach acid. “So, eat up! Celebrate!”

                “You’re not very subtle, are you?” It’s not poisoned. In fact, the rice bowl is actually really well made, steamed to perfection. Yuuri wouldn’t mind scarfing it if this particular encounter wouldn’t sour the taste. “Didn’t we work on that?”

                “I don’t like being subtle.” JJ’s not eating, just hunched over his arms, encircling half the table. His left leg is up, hooked under his right. There’s a loaded gun in there, pointing at Yuuri’s midsection.

                “No,” he agrees, because it doesn’t matter if he can read JJ’s every move if he can’t react to it.  He had thought Otabek would be the one to pull this, so he had to be rid of first. “What do you want?”

                Loose threads, loose ends.

                Yuuri’s gotten sloppy.

                “A future favor, maybe?” JJ hums. Shoot, god, _damn_ , Yuuri takes another bite of the egg. He knew the risk of taking out Otabek first, but he thought it would manifest in a wild goose chase and a shooting. Every mistake Otabek has, his blunt honesty, his clear affection, his quiet, but strict morale; his partners do not make. Otabek, panicked, has a loose mouth.

                JJ does too, but with all the wrong words.

                “Why did you want to meet?” One-on-one, sans partners, lovers.

                “Curiosity? Maybe anger? I don’t like being one-upped, you know?” Empty words, empty gestures. He’s looking at the soy sauce that dribbles from the pork katsu. “I don’t like being left in the dark.” JJ smiles at Yuuri.

                It’s a risk, but Yuuri has to take it.

                “You researched me,” he doesn’t like wild accusations, but he’s running out of moves. Yuuri’s not even certain if he wants to eat fast or slow; which one is correct? He never spent much time with JJ in particular. Yuri, he’d eat slow. Otabek, fast. Him?

                “I did.” Yuuri doesn’t know. “It’s fair, isn’t it? You searched us up too, after all, to make it into here unsuspected. Does Victor know?”

                Yuuri would like to know. His chopsticks slow. The pieces of pork break under the force of bamboo, soaking in the egg and spices. The rice cools.

                Take one’s time.

                “Do they know that your siblings aren’t dead?”

♠

                Yuuri’s learned to go in for the kill.

                Even so, it’s hard to raise aa hand against the familiar freckled face that cowers in front of him, eyes wide and hands shaking, rifle broken and discarded at his side. Guang Hong stares upward, mouth gaping as he tries to form words. His skin pales as Yuuri steps closer, head shaking.

                Yuuri’s not _that_ scary, honest.

                “Why are you here?” The Chinese agent shivers, making flapping noises as he turns away from Yuuri. He shouldn’t be here. There was only one agent sent on this mission; Yuuri. There was only one agent he called for to help; Phichit.

                Nowhere in the equation is the boy who sits in front of him, wearing a familiar pinstripe suit.

                “Li,” a flinch, “why are you here?” Not on command, surely. They had known heading in that this mission would take a while, maybe even years. All for the future.

                Always looking to the future.

                “That man,” hesitation, fear, “is my target.” Averting eyes, biting lips, wringing hands. Guang Hong’s focus is everywhere but the senior in front of him.

                No.

                “Don’t lie.” The words cut deep and Guang Hong shuffles inward, hiding his hands under his knees and hapless. Yuuri doesn’t like this, hurting the few that are close to him. He’d rather not push them away.

                But lunch infuriated him.

                Katsuki Yuuri is, for once, mad.

♠

                “How mad do you think Victor is going to be when I tell him?” When, not if.

                “I don’t see why he’d believe a desperate, delusional child.” Incorrect, and they both know it. It’s a losing game, a slope that Yuuri’s struggling to climb but someone keeps pouring wax along the side. It burns, grinds, but his fingers don’t loosen.

                “Is that what I am to you?” Filler conversation, “were you always so cruel?” Before they met, or after? Which identity? Which lie that they’ve come to live?

                He can’t break free like this.

                Yuuri has to fly.

                “No,” blunt honesty. Surprise flickers over JJ’s face, and it’s enough to make the curve of the slope straighten, “I try not to be. I don’t like to be,” it’s easy to say this, to an insider that’s really not. Talking to Phichit would ensure the other would try to pull him from this mission. “The people around us, the people here, no one deserves this fate. People born into this place,” JJ, Yuri, his team, Yuuri, “are stuck. But they shouldn’t have to be.”

                “I promised Otabek something special,” JJ’s mouth opens but Yuuri continues, eyes fierce, “ask him yourself.” The words would sound better from someone closer.

                Yuuri had been much less angry when it was Phichit, crying, honest, telling him.

♠

                “Katsuki, please,” last name basis. It’s been a while since he’s heard that.

                “Li,” he responds, but his hand doesn’t loosen from the hold on the trigger, “please don’t lie to my face.”

                Georgi’s likely been caught by security by now. The man is only good at hunting women; Yuuri doubts he can make his way out safely. He’ll inform Victor he escaped, but Georgi was left behind for secure measures. A rookie miscalculation.

                “Why are you protecting him? Katsuki, it’s not your role!” Yuuri grinds at his teeth. He knows. “Katsuki, remember what your job is! You just have to—”

                “I _don’t_ remember.”

Befriend Victor Nikiforov.

Seduce Victor Nikiforov.

                Kill Victor Nikiforov.

                It’s been months.

♠

                “You’ve been trapped.”

                It’s not an accusation; just a fact. Still, the words lick up against his skin, crackling and feeling along the ridges, peeling every weakness visible. Yuuri smiles back, because it’s true, he doesn’t like lying and it’s true.

                The curve has shifted.

                “He doesn’t act like a crime lord.” Victor cries in his sleep and hugs a poodle plush to his chest, the only thing that’s allowed to stay in his room night after night. He picks the floral bedsheets because “colors bring happiness!” and exaggerates the simplest topics. Victor whines about sad movies that he doesn’t watch and likes to fix Yuuri’s tie, even half-asleep.

                His mouthwash tastes like grape soda.

                The resolution of this mission is clear. Anyone could tell him what to do. End it, before it’s too late. Stop in the tracks, pause the train, the realization has come and he should go.

                “You’re in love.”

                It’s wrong. Purely situational. Just another farce to tilt the slope, push the curve into a half-moon shape to comfortably ride in.

                Yuuri stares JJ in the eye.

                “It’s been months.”

♠

                If Victor is taken out by Yuuri, then the entire network of East European agencies will break. In their moment of confusion, weakness, fear, in comes the Japanese Yakuza, with their bright eyes and promising, empty smiles. The name “Katsuki Yuuri” will become idolized, just as lovely, just as known, as the Victor Nikiforov before him. A new world could be born.

                Or the new world could be squashed flat.

                Katsuki Yuuri wants to reform that world. He could stop the torrent of child trafficking, could end the relentless breeding to try to get the “right genes”. He could end the training, the ruthless destruction that comes with the idea of “spies”. If it’s him who kills Victor, then it’s him who has the word. The word to come, and to go.

                To stop.

                “Katsuki, you wouldn’t kill me, right?” Had he become such a person in the few months away? Was he so cruel, so empty, a bare-handed menace that could so ruthlessly hurt those around him? Had he become so polished? Had he finally become that killer?

                Between warm blankets and warm body, behind hot meals and cheerful chatter, and in the folds of joy that comes with juniors, he can’t imagine it.

                Yuuri runs his fingers along the gun, menacing, just once.

                “I wouldn’t.”

                He couldn’t.

                Had the target of the mission been Victor, or him?

♠

 

                One might think that there’s no point in a loaded gun if it’s not going to shoot. Yuuri knows better.

                A loaded gun is always more dangerous, because accidents are the deadliest things of all.

                “Victor’s probably waiting for me.” The legs of the chair scrape against the tile, scratching thick lines into the shiny surface. His voice feels rough, hoarse, even though he hadn’t cried in years. His face feels heavy. “You should probably eat. I’m sure they’re worried.”

                JJ doesn’t move from his position. He’s just watching, chin cupped in hands, silent. He could shoot now. He could probably tilt his leg up just enough, just slightly, and that would do it. Goodbye, Katstuki Yuuri.

                The gun doesn’t go off.

                He doesn’t even reach for it.

                “What’s it like?” Yuuri pauses, hands folding over each other on the back of the chair. JJ averts his eyes, tracing patterns in the empty air. “Being in a relationship with Victor Nikiforov?”

                That gun will never shoot in Yuuri’s direction.

                Yuuri smiles and breathes. This, this feeling, the one that soaks into the bones, that soothes the body and churns the mind, enlightens him. There’s nothing in the world quite like this, magical, wonderful.

                The feeling of victory.

♠

Befriend Victor Nikiforov.

Seduce Victor Nikiforov.

Kill Victor Nikiforov.

It’s missing a step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plotting intensifies
> 
> Double length update today because I got the flu last week and couldn't find a good finishing part for the chapter. Midterms almost over so I'm hoping to increase chapter lengths.
> 
> I'll also be posting every(other)day for the next week for Pliroy week! If you'd like a departure from murder, take a look!
> 
> Next week's chapter will be posted as regular.

**Author's Note:**

> My first Victuuri :,)  
> I couldn't resist the ot3. Why did otapliroy attack like this? How could this happen?
> 
> Also note: "ravens" is the male version of the more popularly seen "sparrow", both of which means agents that utilize sex as a tool. For example, a raven may have sex with someone and then slip a microphone into his/her underwear. Or they can offer their bodies as incentive to "hold off" on a decision.
> 
> As chapters go on the Victuuri becomes stronger, don't worry.  
> Planning to update on Wednesdays.


End file.
